Hold the Tomato
by ya-fic
Summary: Emmett stops in a sandwich shop it took him awhile to notice then shares his order with Elle who doesn't think it looks like something she will enjoy. Okay, now go back and read that sentence again, but as a metaphor.
1. LBB

**Author's Note: **This idea randomly came to me and I wasn't going to write it because prose isn't really my thing, but the potential for an "LBB" reference pushed me over the edge.

Emmett Forrest wondered how he would ever make it as a lawyer being so utterly unobservant and altogether oblivious. The thought occurred to him as he stood in line at Hold the Tomato, a sandwich shop that he had walked by nearly every day since he started Harvard Law, yet had not once seen. That is, until today.

He had no idea why, as he cruised down the sidewalk on that particular brisk November day, he turned his head to the right just as someone opened the door to the sandwich shop. The bell over the door dinged, and an enticing aroma drifted out onto the sidewalk, causing Emmett to freeze in his tracks.

He turned to the store and looked up with a feeling of wonder, full of the joy that pleasant discoveries like this one always bring to their discoverer. Emmett assumed it must be a new business. He never considered that he could have, for years, completely ignored the outlandish three-dimensional sign above the storefront awning.

Really, it was less like a sign and more like a work of art. Two enormous hands held competing representations of the shop name. One hand simply clutched a page from an order book where "hold the tomato" had been written in red ink and triple-circled for emphasis. The other hand gripped a bright red tomato. The visual pun was clever enough to transform Emmett's amazement into amusement.

Then he noticed some extra words on the sign: "Est. 1998." The restaurant wasn't new at all. It had been there since 1998, years before Emmett started attending Harvard. Years before he started walking down this street every day. How could he have possibly missed something so glaringly apparent?

The door opened again as another customer exited Hold the Tomato with a (tomato-less?) sandwich in hand. The concept was particularly appealing to Emmett because he hated tomatoes. He conjectured that his typical "no tomato" addendum would not be considered a "special order" in this place. On the contrary, it would be the given, the norm. It was that thought that convinced him to enter the restaurant.

With one customer ahead of him, Emmett waited and continued his self-inflicted mental beat-down. He was really going to have to open his eyes and become aware of the places, people and events around him. He couldn't just go on like this, missing the obvious, not seeing what was staring him in the face.

"Can I help you?" a girl's voice asked Emmett.

Emmett had not noticed that the man in front of him had collected and paid for his own sandwich already. It was Emmett's turn to order and the teenage worker behind the counter, whose nametag read "Kate," had already counted off the ten seconds she always gave people so as not to make them feel too rushed.

Emmett blinked and shook his head, contemplating the possibility that he was a lost cause on the road to full awareness. He collected himself enough to place his order, though he hadn't yet looked at the menu.

"BLT with no—" he stopped himself.

Kate smiled and asked, "First time?"

Emmett nodded and wondered aloud, "Does this place even have a BLT?"

"Yeah. Well, kind of. Obviously, we hold the tomato. We also add some extra bacon. We call it an LBB… or LB-squared, if you're nasty."

Emmett tilted his head, considering the possibility that she was making some pop culture reference that he didn't understand, something unlike the sandwich shop. Not something he had passed by, but something that had passed by him as he studied for his law classes or the bar exam.

"Like the Janet Jackson song," Kate explained without any particular tone of judgment, "I'm Janet. Miss Jackson, if you're nasty."

"Really? Those are the lyrics of a song? Like a song they play on the radio?"

"Yep. It's called Nasty."

"Huh. I have to say… I did not know that."

Kate laughed and shrugged it off, not particularly surprised or annoyed by this fact.

"So… what'll it be?"

"I'll take the LBB," Emmett told her, deciding that he couldn't possibly possess whatever being "nasty" required.

"Coming right up," Kate promised.

Sandwich in hand, Emmett walked out of the store and remembered where he was headed in the first place. He retrospectively wondered if he should have ordered a sandwich for his study partner. Actually she wasn't really his study partner so much as a study prisoner, but he was the humanitarian sort of study nazi who would be willing to provide her with little nourishment to go with her Red Bull.

He decided, in the end, he could do with the sandwich what he had done with his time and knowledge: share.


	2. LBSquared

As Elle sat next to Emmett on the floor of her dorm room with their backs pressed against her bed for support and their shoulders touching, Elle closed her eyes and pretended he was Warner. When she inhaled, the charade was extinguished by the scent of what should have been Gucci Rush, but was instead Old Spice… and bacon.

She opened her eyes and looked over as Emmett unwrapped the sandwich from Hold the Tomato. She wondered how he had never noticed that place before. It was nearly impossible to miss with the weird jumbo hands and that giant mutant tomato that looked like something out of the Guinness Book of World Records. Weren't lawyers supposed to be observant? Was Emmett really that blind?

But Elle kept the criticisms to herself because she didn't really mean them anyway. In fact, she found his oversight rather adorable just as she found her study partner himself rather adorable. Emmett pretended to be a taskmaster, but here he was taking a dinner break… before the study session had even begun.

And suddenly Elle was glad she wasn't with Warner. Warner would never help her study, especially not on a Friday night. Warner would never rearrange his entire life around her schedule because Warner would never care if she were passing her classes or flunking miserably out of school. And Warner would certainly never sit with her on the floor and offer to split his sandwich with her.

"Well, there's plenty here," Emmett observed as he pulled the sandwich in two, each piece still safely secured in its own sheet of white deli paper, "you want half?"

Elle leaned a little closer to Emmett, examining the sandwich. At first glance, nothing about it seemed at all appealing. Elle couldn't even remember if she liked bacon. The mayonnaise that was oozing through the lettuce was undoubtedly not light. And the whole mess sat between two huge slices of toasted white bread. Didn't everyone order wraps these days? A hundred other ways of how to improve the sandwich popped into Elle's head.

Emmett took a bite out of his portion of the sandwich while indifferently holding the other half in front of Elle's face. Elle turned up her nose to get a good angle for a quick sniff. As the sandwich's aroma drifted into her nostrils, she suddenly remembered the taste of bacon and how completely satisfying it could be.

The look she gave Emmett said she was doing him a favor by taking the sandwich off his hands, but, in reality, she was eager for the first bite. Elle moved the sandwich to her lips then sunk her teeth in, and as she chewed, her taste buds were not disappointed. The LBB hit her with unexpected gratification in a way that she never could have seen coming.

"Good, right?" Emmett asked her between bites, being careful not to talk with his mouth full.

"Oh my God," Elle mumbled out while in mid-chew, "so good."

Emmett smiled and settled comfortably against the bed again, enjoying each bite of his sandwich in low-key silence. Elle did the same, and while she normally would have filled the auditory void with her endless running commentary, she found the thoughts that occurred to her at the moment were the kind you should really never even let fully form in your head, much escape from your lips.

Perhaps it was because Elle found herself a little closer, a little cozier, to Emmett than their unspoken personal space guidelines usually provided for. She didn't mind the way his bony elbow dug into her own arm each time he lowered his sandwich or the fact that one of the knees of his criss-crossed legs bore down on her thigh. In fact, the contact provided a warmth that Elle hadn't felt since Warner. Actually, at the moment, Emmett was suddenly evoking a slew of sensations that Elle hadn't felt since Warner.

A fiery blush bloomed across her cheeks and bled down onto her neck. Maybe Emmett, the guy who already did all the things Warner would never do, could also be for Elle what Warner refused to be. But Elle derailed her own train of thought right there. It could carry her nowhere good--and fast. Just because Emmett was the guy in the room, it didn't mean he was the guy for her.

Besides, Elle couldn't even remember what it was like to be with someone other than Warner. Would it not be a nightmare to deal with a man who oozed with insecurities instead of confidence (arrogance?). And, seriously, what man still wore corduroy? And then one of Elle's favorite words popped into her head: makeover.

She continued to eat her sandwich as she attempted to push aside these conflicting feelings and confused thoughts, but when the scent of Old Spice drifted her way again, Elle couldn't help but turn her head toward Emmett to collect a better sample.

The added proximity this move brought, she told herself, was entirely accidental. Besides, Emmett didn't seem to mind. Actually, Emmett didn't seem to notice. He took in another mouthful of his sandwich and stared ahead. This gave Elle the liberty to take one more whiff before turning away to process the olfactory rush.

She didn't know if it was deodorant or after-shave or, in reality, if it was even Old Spice at all. If it could be purchased at a drug store, it wasn't exactly in Elle's repertoire, but whatever the fragrance, it became decidedly "Emmett" when it intertwined itself with the aroma of leather from that hand-me-down courier bag he hauled around everywhere and the hint of spearmint from the pack of his favorite gum that was always at the ready in his front left pocket.

Then the smell of the quarter of the LBB still in her hands forced its way into Elle's nose and pushed aside her previous analysis. She took one more bite as Emmett polished his half off entirely. Elle chewed and swallowed then held out the remains of her portion to Emmett.

"I thought you said it was good," Emmett reminded her, eying the remains with a not-quite-satisfied appetite.

"Oh, it is good. A little too good for me," she explained as she passed what was left to Emmett.

While the sandwich possessed nothing Elle would include in an order of her own making, it surprised her entirely with its simplistic yet ample flavors. It was wholly and completely pleasing to her, but she gave it up because she knew, if she didn't, she'd have to have it all the time. And like the train of thought she was still trying to get off the tracks, she knew that could lead nowhere good.


	3. Pickle

**Author's Note:** I thought I'd end this story with three chapters, but I guess it will probably end up somewhere around five... then I can get back to work on the deleted scenes. I'm such a completionist that I don't normally operate in this way, but I guess when inspiration hits, you just have to go with it. I will also once again state that writing in prose like this is not my normal style so I apologize if it falls short of expectations, but this is how it hit me when I thought of it. Anyway, if you do enjoy it or you have any advice, hit me up with a review or message. Thank you so much!

Emmett sat alone at a table in the back corner of his favorite sandwich shop, Hold the Tomato, a place that featured an array of delectable tomato-less creations, sandwiches that were designed for people like Emmett whose taste for tomatoes extended only to ketchup, salsa and spaghetti sauce. His favorite sandwich, the Lettuce-Bacon-Bacon (or LBB for short), was already ordered and on the way.

The seventeen-year-old sandwich maker, Kate, whose Uncle Chris owned the shop and who hoped to one day attend Harvard Law School, would deliver the sandwich to him in a basket where it would be arranged with a handful of homemade potato chips and a pickle.

You only got the pickle when you ate in the shop, never with carryout or delivery. They could nix the pickle altogether as far as Emmett was concerned. If there was one auxiliary food item he disliked more than tomatoes, it was pickles. In particular, he didn't appreciate how the salty green pickle juice oozed onto his chips and soaked into the bread of his sandwich, poisoning the entire plate.

Despite his distaste for the odious side item, Emmett never requested the limp spear be left out of his sandwich basket because, more often than not, if he were dining in, he also sat across from a person whose penchant for pickles was particularly charming.

This wasn't just any pickle-loving someone, of course. It was the single person, the single idea he had on his mind at the moment. He should have been thinking about the trial and how they had just won it. He should have been thinking about his next career move as he had basically thrown his job in Callahan's face. He should have been thinking about a lot of things, but he wasn't because it was useless. Every thought he had circled back and landed on her… on Elle.

As she approached the table with his order, Kate noticed the young lawyer was deep in thought, lost there. With an avid interest in law, she'd been following the Wyndham trial and was fully aware of today's events and eventual outcome. She was dying to hear everything. to know all the details of how they had pulled it off.

But Kate paid attention. She spotted Emmett's furrowed brow and frown lines, his distraught disposition. She noticed the way he mindlessly accordion-folded his straw wrapper without even detecting her approach. But most noticeable, or most noticeably missing, rather, was the person with whom he should have been celebrating today's victory—and with more than an LBB and complimentary pickle.

When Emmett and Elle first started coming in together, Kate assumed they were dating. Fortunately, before any awkward incidents where she accidentally referred to her as his girlfriend transpired, Kate had learned the truth. Elle told her candidly, in nearly passing conversation, that the only reason she'd come to Harvard Law was to follow her one true love, Warner Something-ton the Eighteenth.

At the time, Kate thought it was pretty cold of Elle to say considering she had been sitting at a table with a man who was so obviously and completely, so hopelessly in love with her. But when Kate glanced at that man, maybe to offer a little solidarity—she'd had her share of unrequited crushes, after all—she found his smile was accepting, not bitter. Emmett really did love Elle, in the most pure and unselfish of ways. That, to Kate, was completely intriguing.

The more they came in, the less she heard Elle prattling on about Warner, and the more she heard them having two-sided chats about everything from law to hair care to Emmett's childhood obsession with Batman. And then there were the less cursory conversations: political debates, social commentaries, philosophical discussions. Their arguments, though, were most entertaining to Kate because they always ended with one admitting defeat and claiming the other was "always right."

As she approached his table, Kate glanced into Emmett's sandwich basket, making the last-minute check she gave every order, and had to smile over the pickle. On the few occasions that Emmett came in and dined alone, he'd always immediately tossed the pickle out of his basket, giving it a look usually reserved for dead bodies or horrifically unfortunate plumbing situations.

Kate knew the only reason Emmett allowed something he found so disgustingly foul to be placed anywhere near his favorite sandwich in the first place was so that, when Elle grabbed it off his plate without warning or permission, he could flirtatiously fight her for possession. She never got away completely unscathed, without a playful smack to the back of the hand or a gentle wrist-grab.

And, on the rare occasion when she didn't snatch up the pickle right away, Emmett would bait her by picking it up as if he were going to take a bite, though Kate hypothesized that he was probably more likely to jab it in his eye than actually let it touch his lips. Still, these fake-outs worked to provoke much more physical battles with Elle trying to wrestle the pickle away from Emmett from across the table. If her brute force didn't work—and it rarely did—Elle would resort to putting her hand over his mouth to prevent consumption. If he wasn't laughing enough to relinquish the pickle at this point, she would pull out her secret pickle-obtaining weapon: tickling. Though he tried to take it like a man, Emmett always ended up squealing like a little girl. And Elle always got her pickle.

Kate had to wonder if Elle had any clue just how much Emmett hated pickles and that it was really only her attention for which he fought so ferociously. Of course, she also wondered if Emmett took any notice of how Elle's smile changed under his flirtations or the way her gaze lingered on him anytime he wasn't looking directly at her. Kate suspected they were quite the oblivious pair.

Just before she reached the table to deliver his dinner, Kate seriously thought about sitting down with Emmett and telling him everything she thought she knew, but she resisted for a few reasons. One, she was fairly certain it might make her sound like some creepy sandwich-making stalker (and maybe she was?). But, more importantly, she had no idea what had actually exacerbated Emmett's mood in this way.

Maybe it had nothing to do with Elle at all. Maybe it had everything to do with Elle, and she would only make the situation all the more distressing by bringing it up. She was still involved in the internal debate when she reached Emmett's table.

"Here you go," Kate spoke softly so as not to startle him, "Need anything else?"

Emmett made eye contact as she placed his order on the table then gave her a smile she was certain was fake.

"No. I'm good," he lied, "but thanks, Kate."

"Congratulations, by the way. I was watching the trial on television," she told him without bringing up the name that had to be on his mind.

"Elle was fantastic, wasn't she?"

It was the opening Kate needed, but something about the look on Emmett's face told her to take a more simplistic approach.

"Well, yeah, but… when isn't she?" she asked rhetorically and walked away, letting the question hang in the air behind her.

Never. Never was the answer to that question. Emmett knew it. The sandwich making seventeen year old knew it. And, of course, Warner knew it… finally.

Emmett pushed the thought away and tried to focus on the food before him, but when he looked down into the basket, all he could see was the pickle.


	4. Picklehater

**Author's Note: **One more chapter and this will be done. Review if you loved it or hated it... or even if you just love (or hate) pickles. Thanks for reading!

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Before Emmett noticed her walk into Hold the Tomato, Elle spotted him sitting all alone at the back corner table where the two of them so often dined together while simultaneously engaging in enlightening conversations, participating in heated debates and, her absolute favorite, waging the never-ending Pickle War.

Even from her faraway position in the doorway, Elle could see the pickle in his basket, pushed to the side, safely away from his sandwich and chips. She had long ago figured out, of course, that Emmett absolutely hated pickles, but she also knew it wouldn't be nearly as much fun if he started just handing them over to her. So she did something that Emmett would normally be onto in a heartbeat: she played dumb. And, it seemed, in this one case, he was none the wiser.

This allowed her to pull and push and grip and block—and even tickle when necessary. These epic pickle battles provided the opportunity for so much contact, such close contact, that just the week-old memory of her most recent victory drew Elle from the doorway into the restaurant. As the door closed behind her, the bell above it dinged.

From the counter, Kate looked up and smiled wide. Elle liked this teenager quite a bit and would normally go over, say hello and answer all the questions the aspiring law student was bound to have about the trial, but as Kate's eyes drifted away from Elle to the table in the back, Elle knew the girl would understand. They exchanged a grin, a silent agreement about what Elle needed to do.

When she turned from Kate and the counter, Elle immediately found herself captured in a gaze so intense that it took away both her breath and her forward momentum. She froze, staring at Emmet for several very slow seconds.

Seeing her there like that, still in the oh-so-Elle pink dress from the trial and framed by the large store window behind her, Emmett discovered something he had, somewhere deep down, known all along, but had only recently come to consciously suspect: he was in love with Elle Woods.

It was the kind of love, he knew immediately, that should only be an all or nothing kind of thing. Being that madly in love with a woman while trying to be her friend would be a special sort of sadistic torture that no person should ever have to endure, but Emmett resolved it was a penance he was willing to pay if it meant having Elle in his life. He could love Elle and be her friend. He would.

But would he love Elle, be her friend, and stand by while she married Warner? Could he? He supposed that, yes, he could endure that, too, just as long as it wasn't actually, physically possible to die of a broken heart.

As Elle tried to move the high-heeled feet that felt glued to the floor, her mind got ahead of her body and shook itself free of the mental fog that had set in when she first saw Emmett sitting at the back table of the shop. Now, with a clearer head, she was able to take notice of a few things.

She observed, for example, that Emmett was agonizingly unhappy, but trying to mask it with the worst fake smile she had ever seen. She wondered what had happened to that grin he'd given her after Brooke's trial— right before they'd hugged, right before they'd…been interrupted by Warner.

But Elle's brain didn't stop on Warner for any longer than that. It was instead completely consumed with thoughts of Emmett and how he had removed both his tie and jacket, items she thought were essential to the hotness she had never even noticed before she took him suit shopping. All of a sudden, though, she realized he could be wearing a bear suit and she'd still be caught in his tractor beam, drawn and attracted to him in ways she never knew existed until this very second.

It was a feeling—a heady rush of sensations and emotions—that Elle simply couldn't place. It was like nothing in the world she had ever experienced—or like experiencing everything in the world all at once. It was a connection, an extreme satisfaction. Yet it was also a need, an insatiable hunger. Like her entire world, her entire life, her entire self was this giant, complicated jigsaw puzzle with just one missing, perfect piece, and Emmett Forrest was sitting there in front of her, ready to put it in place. Or, perhaps, he was himself that final puzzle piece.

And as her heart raced and her knees got weaker, she finally reached Emmett and found support, bracing herself on the table. He rose immediately, looking at her with distress and concern.

"Elle? Are you okay?"

"Yeah… I mean… no… I mean… I think I need to sit down," her mouth answered, not nearly up to speed with her brain.

Emmett nodded and chivalrously pulled out her chair. Elle sat down, watching him with a goofy, gaping smile, but he didn't notice. He was flagging down Kate and discreetly mouthing the word "water" while miming the motion of drinking.

"How'd you know I was here?" he asked as he pulled his own chair around and placed it so that he could sit close to and facing Elle.

"I didn't," she answered honestly, "but I was hoping…"

Kate brought the glass of water and handed it off to Emmett. He gave her a nod and she read the meaning perfectly. She took off and gave them their privacy.

Emmett handed Elle the water and she swallowed an obedient swig before setting it down on the table.

"Well, it's good that you came because I was saving you my pickle," he told her as he grabbed his sandwich basket and held it out in her direction.

Elle looked at him suspiciously, as if he may pull the basket away, but his now genuine grin was also totally trustworthy. Elle grabbed the pickle and took a bite, mainly as a symbolic gesture. She did love pickles, it was true, but her stomach was entirely too butterfly-ridden to consume too much of anything.

"How'd you know I'd show up?" she asked in the same tone he'd used when questioning her.

"I didn't," Emmett echoed as he glanced down at Elle's empty ring finger, "but I was hoping…"

With the finishing piece to Elle's puzzle snugly in place, she was finally able to see the big picture. She knew the precise word to describe what she had been feeling. The word she thought she knew so well, but now realized she had been misusing all along.

Love.

"Elle, I need to tell you some things," Emmett confessed with no clue of exactly what those things would be or, more correctly, in which order they should be delivered. Instead of trying to figure it out, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, hoping the words would just come to him. He was afraid to look at her.

Elle watched his anxiety rise as he started to rub his hands together. She, on the other hand, was moving in completely the opposite direction. Her comfort and confidence were growing exponentially to the point that it only slightly terrified her to reach out and wrap her hands around his, stopping his movement.

When he looked up at her, his nerves were instantly eased.

"Emmett, you should know," she said as she squeezed his hands reassuringly while also enjoying the thrill of what she hoped was just the beginning of contact that didn't involve fighting for a pickle, "I'm pretty much open for any _thing_ you want to say right now. Just pick one."

Emmett closed his eyes and let the first thing that came to him roll off his tongue, "Elle…I hate pickles."


	5. Hold the Tomato

**Author's Note: **Thanks so much for checking out and following this story to its conclusion. I have to warn you that the last few lines just may be the cheesiest thing I've ever written... but I've always liked cheesy so hopefully you will, too. Let me know if you loved it or if you hated it. All feedback is helpful!

* * *

"Elle… I hate pickles," he began without looking at her, "More than I hate tomatoes, and you're familiar with my position on tomatoes."

Elle laughed. Then she laughed some more. While it was nice to know that her suspicions about Emmett's anti-pickle sentiments were correct, this was not exactly the confession for which Elle had been hoping.

Just as she was about to consider the possibility that she had, perhaps, misread his signals, Emmet slipped his hands away from hers, expediting the arrival of the theory. But before she had time to seriously second-guess herself, he repositioned his hands around hers, very nearly encompassing them.

His palms were warm, but not sweaty. His grip was secure, but not overbearing. And the way he traced his thumb down the side of Elle's wrist gave her the best kind of goose bumps, the most certain sort of reassurance and an explosive resurgence of that new and still unfamiliar sensation she now knew for sure was love.

The notion of love made Elle feel suddenly self-conscious. She could not believe she had followed Warner across the country—to Harvard Law School—because he was her "one, true love." It seemed so silly and juvenile, like how her second-grade self spent every recess chasing all the boys she thought she "loved" around the playground.

Emmett, on the other hand, was a man Elle would never chase. If life took him away from her and toward some greater destiny, she would let her heart break—if it meant his happiness.

What Elle didn't yet understand was that Emmett considered no destiny greater than a life shared with Elle Woods, knew no purer happiness than to simply be in her presence, even if just on the periphery. And where Elle judged herself a fool for following her heart on some misguided path toward Warner, Emmett saw only that the same journey had led to this moment.

This moment. Not quite thinking of it as a destination, but hoping it was more than a speed bump, Emmett gently squeezed Elle's hands and wished not for the words—what he had to say was the simplest profession one could make—but for the courage to share his secret with Elle and for the strength to accept whatever her response would be.

"You know, I already knew," she told him, hoping to gently guide the conversation back on track, a track she was so much less afraid of than she had once been.

Emmett wondered, just briefly, if she had somehow been reading his scattered thoughts. Then he remembered the last words he'd spoken aloud. The pickles. The damned pickles. She already knew he hated pickles. Awesome.

"How do you know?" he asked, observing the mischievous spark in her eye and the way her lips formed into one of the smiles she once stockpiled only for Warner.

"I'm observant," Elle answered cryptically.

"Why didn't you say anything?" he questioned, though he knew they were getting into territory way deeper than the pickle barrel.

"Why didn't you?" she asked, only faking the accusatory edge her tone took.

Emmett smiled, suddenly bashful. He looked down at his hands, still wrapped around Elle's, and then answered her question with yet another question:

"Isn't it obvious?"

For some reason, that particular inquiry really hit home for Elle. She had a long list of things she initially thought were obvious. For example, she once thought it was obvious that her long-time boyfriend was taking her out to dinner in order to propose. Another time, she thought that her professor had obviously chosen her to be an intern because of her résumé.

So now, though it did seem obvious that Emmett never mentioned his aversion to pickles for the same reason Elle never mentioned that she'd noticed his aversion to pickles, she was simply afraid to jump to the obvious conclusion.

But, God, was it tempting.

Emmett had all but spelled it out, talked completely around his feelings. He knew he needed to say it, to confirm to Elle what he was fairly certain she already knew. He was also sure the odds were stacked against him, and was it completely idiotic—emotional suicide—to admit his feelings with the hopes that perhaps she felt the same.

But, God, was it tempting.

"Emmett," she began.

"Elle," he tried to start at the exact same moment.

"I'm in love with you," they both confessed, simultaneously giving in to their separate temptations.

Elle Woods and Emmett Forrest stared at each other, shock giving way to smiles of disbelief then morphing into unadulterated joy.

As he once wondered if one could die of a broken heart, Emmett now wondered if the complete opposite was as equally fatal. Could his heart handle the pure delight of a moment he assumed would be reserved only for his dreams?

Elle's heart was also dangerously full, but she barely noticed. She was instead focused on the thing she'd felt compelled to do since before she had ever even qualified her feelings for Emmett, since he'd walked into the courtroom and stood up to Callahan on her behalf.

But Emmett had wanted it longer, since their foray into department store shopping, and so he was the one who pulled Elle to her feet. He was the one who slipped his hands around her waist. And he was the one who, without any more doubt or hesitation, put his mouth to hers.

Without the time to over-think it, Elle could only follow her instincts. She responded to Emmett's kiss with more fury than she'd ever used to fight for a pickle. Each time her lips crashed into his, she felt tiny explosions prickle every inch of her body from the inside out. Elle had never experienced anything quite so exhilarating.

Nor had Emmett. And when Elle wrapped her arms around his neck, a refusal to let his lips move more than a few centimeters away from hers, Emmett wondered how he had spent so much time with this woman without ever fully realizing what was right there in front of him all along: the girl of his dreams.

Elle wondered how she could have ever thought Emmett wasn't her type, and why she had, for so long, been unwilling to recognize how absolutely perfect he was—and how perfect he was for her. Emmett was the only man who had ever shown her not only what it was like to truly be in love, but also what it was like to truly be loved in return.

As if to underscore her thoughts, he breathlessly mumbled "I love you" through her ever-intensifying kisses. She kept her arms around his neck, but pulled back enough to give him a little breathing room.

"But I guess you already knew that, too, huh? That I love you?" he questioned playfully as he gulped for air, "I mean, seeing as how you're so observant."

"No, but now that I think about it… I guess it is pretty obvious," she teased and gave him the coyest look in her arsenal before adding, "And, Emmett… I love you, too."

Elle then became aware that she was kissing and confessing her love to Emmett in the middle of a sandwich shop. Granted, there were no other customers and the sandwich girl had long since taken her leave, a polite attempt at giving them some privacy. But still. Then she thought of the pickle. She stepped back from Emmett.

"Oh my God, Emmett. I'm so sorry."

"What for?" he asked, trying desperately not to fear the worst.

"I totally ate some of that pickle… then kissed you," she said as if that statement were the explanation itself.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he asked, chuckling over the seemingly illogical, but fortunately harmless, statement.

"As previously established, you hate pickles. That must have been awful for you."

Emmett laughed and fought back the desire to tell her that he'd eat nine hundred billion pickles himself if it meant getting to kiss her even one more time; therefore, a little salt and brine after-taste was less than offensive.

"Um, Elle," he started as he closed the gap Elle's backwards step had created between them and then gently pressed his forehead into hers, "pickle-flavored kisses work just fine. Just, uh, be careful with the tomatoes because in their raw form, my aversion is actually more of an allergy than a preference."

"You're allergic to tomatoes?" she asked.

"Although, honestly, it's a contact allergy so… but, you know, I guess to be safe…"

"Got it. You want kisses, hold the tomato," she simplified as her lips drifted enticingly closer to his.

"Yeah… especially the first part," he agreed just before she completed his order.

**The End**


End file.
